I dug out my old school and uni photos, looking for faces that might spark a memory of a transgression on my part. I even asked for the personnel files of everyone I’ve sacked since I took on the role of chief executive at The Anchorway Trust. One name leapt out at me. Niall Bennett, an intense young man I dismissed after a complaint from my head of outreach. Niall had given his phone number to a couple of homeless teenage girls. WhenI summoned him to my office, he claimed it was in case they needed help outside Anchorway’s core opening hours.
‘It was misguided, Niall,’ I told him. ‘Misguided and a clear breach of our safeguarding responsibilities. Your actions crossed professional boundaries, which we simply cannot allow. I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.’
The vehemence of Niall’s reaction caught me by surprise. He’d leapt to his feet, railing that Anchorway cared more about rules and regulations than it did about the young people it claimed to serve.
You need a pretty thick skin to survive boarding school, yet even I was shaken by his belligerence; the evangelical glint in his eye.
I tried to find him online, but he wasn’t on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok or X. He didn’t even have a profile on LinkedIn. People his age live their lives on social media. The fact that Niall Bennett had no digital footprint was a glaring red flag.
It had to be him.
I spent a couple of days debating whether or not to go to the police with my suspicions. But, almost as if he knew I was on to him, the messages dried up and for a couple of blissful weeks I told myself they must have been from a random bot on a phishing exercise and they’d moved on after some other poor sop had taken the bait.
I should be so lucky. I was filling a glass of water from the dispenser in the fridge one rainy Thursday afternoon when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I assumed it was Barney announcing he was going to be late home from work again. I was wrong.
hypocrisy/ noun–The practice of claiming to have higher standards or more noble beliefs than you actually live by.
I dropped the glass of water on the slate floor. It shattered, shards flying everywhere and, as I hurried over to the cupboard under the sink to find the dustpan and brush, I stood on a piece. But the stinging pain in my heel was nothing compared to the kernel of dread unfurling in the pit of my stomach.
Though I might not know for sure who was sending the texts, I now had a pretty good idea what they meant. And I had a horrible feeling my tormentor wasn’t about to stop.
Not until they’d destroyed me.
19
WILLOW
So Amber’s mum wasn’t just a lush, she was a convicted criminal. Talk about a plot twist! Didn’t see that coming. Don’t think anyone did, especially Dom. He looked like someone had just tapped him on the shoulder and told him his winning lottery ticket was counterfeit.
As juicy as her revelation was, I couldn’t help admiring Amber for telling us. It would have been so easy for her to keep it on the down-low. She must’ve known she’d be judged, especially by uber snobs like Simone and Victoria. Barney’s a pompous prick, too. I can just imagine the bitching sesh they’ll be having the moment they get the chance.
I pick up my phone and scroll idly through my Instagram and TikTok feeds. I check my messages, reply to a few and ping off some more. I’m debating whether to stay in my room and watch Netflix or head down to the pool to grab some rays when my door flies open and the Wicked Stepmother storms in.
Outraged, I shriek, ‘Do you mind? I could have been getting changed!’
‘Well, you’re clearly not.’ Simone’s hands are on her hips, her eyes narrowed. ‘Where are my Tiffany earrings?’
‘What Tiffany earrings?’
‘The ones your father gave me to wear at our wedding. They’re not in my jewellery box. I assume you’ve borrowed them?’
‘Why would I want to borrow anything ofyours?’ I try to sound as scathing as possible, but Simone just gives an angry shake of her head.
‘Don’t make me laugh. What about my black Louboutin biker boots?’
She’s got me there and she knows it. Yes, I did borrow her precious bloody Louboutins for a party and, yes, I was sick over them and she had to sell them because she couldn’t get rid of the smell, but I sure as hell haven’t touched her earrings.
‘OK, apart from the boots. Why would I want to borrow your Tiffany earrings? Give me some credit.’
‘Your father’s lost his Rolex, too.’
‘He’s always losing his Rolex,’ I point out.
She sighs, because she knows it’s true. ‘Well, if you see either my earrings or your father’s watch perhaps you can let me know.’ Her gaze flickers over my shoulder to the clothes on the bed, the coffee cups on the bedside cabinets and the make-up and toiletries strewn over the dressing table. ‘And, in the meantime, clear this mess up, for Christ’s sake. You’re seventeen, Willow. You can’t expect Maria to clean up after you forever.’
Simone turns on her heels and flounces out, leaving me seething. Firstly, what gives her the right to barge into my room without knocking, like she owns the place? Fact: she doesn’t. Dad does. I’ve seen the deeds. Secondly, accusing me of nicking her earrings? Please. They might have cost over ten grand, but they look like something you’d buy on QVC on a Saturday night after too many glasses of wine. I wouldn’t be seen dead in them. Not unless I was auditioning for a part inReal Housewives,anyway. And then the Maria thing. She’s the one who treats Maria like her personal skivvy, not me.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s classic Simone, twisting the truth to suit her narrative. Even so, I spend ten minutes shoving clothes under the bed and sweeping the clutter on the dressing table into the top drawer. Not because she told me to, but because I like proving her wrong.
